Fillmore Noir 2
by YourFriendlyNeighborhoodGeek
Summary: Sequel To Fillmore Noir. Enjoy and Review.
1. Chapter 1

Before we start, let me tell you one thing: I've seen a lot in this job. I've had to deal with punks so high on ritalin they thought they were invincible (surprise, surprise: they weren't). I've taken care of hostage situations that were started because someone backed out of a Pokemon trade. Hell, just a few weeks ago, I put away the principal on murder charges. After a while, you get to notice a rhythm, a pattern: things begin to make sense.

Except when you're dealing with crazy. If there's one thing I hate, it's crazy. It throws everything off.

You can guess where this is going.

"Fillmore! Fillmore! Fillmore!" The force was having our daily visit with the ever-helpful Randall C. Weems. Tenacious, rat-faced little guy. Apparently had a thing for his old teacher. Always snitched out the other kids for her, trying to get on her good side. Guy makes my skin crawl.

"Randall, you've been bouncing around for ten minutes. TEN. MINUTES. If you've got something to say, say it." Leave it to Ingrid to cut to the chase.

Randall grinned like a kid getting an N64 for Christmas. "Today...today, at lunch....I saw two people CUT in LINE!"

He beams as he finishes, as though he'd just found out the secret to turning rocks into chocolate or something. I just sigh and rub my temple.

"Randall...This week, we stopped a computer theft that would have paralyzed the school. Yesterday, we narrowly stopped a gang from whaling on one kid because of a failed attempt at cheating on a test. THIS MORNING, we managed to take down a punk trying to steal New Principal Buttsavage's car.

And you come in here, telling us about two people cutting in the lunch line?"

Randall shifts uncomfortably. Maybe I was a bit harsh, but c'mon: we don't have time for this.

"Randall, if you get a tip to something worth our time, head down here. Otherwise, get back to class."

Randall looks crestfallen.

Until TJ walks in. Then he looks angry.

"What're you doing here, Detweiller?" he growls, as though it's HIS office.

"Just stopping by, having a chat with my man Fillmore here."

TJ, you idiot. Don't you know what it means to be our guy on the inside? I motion for O'Farrell to show Randall out.

After the last big incident, TJ and I worked something out: he gets us the dirt on anything big going down, we look the other way when he draws something insulting on the blackboard or finagles an extra soda from the machine. I guess in a weird way, he's sort of what Randall wishes he was.

I don't think that fact is lost on Randall, judging by the look he shot us from the hall.

So, TJ lets us in on a plan to steal an answer key, we tell him he's safe to do his soda machine trick, and he's on his way. Simple as that.

It would be a good day, if it weren't for Vallejo's look as he walks into our office.

"Fillmore...I know it ain't school business...But...I think there's something you and Ingrid need to see."

Like I said, I've seen a lot. Not much fazes me.

But damn if I didn't have trouble keeping my lunch down after what I saw.

Someone had dug up Mikey.

It was hard enough to see Mikey when he was fresh. This is just...inhuman. The air is filled with the stench of Mikey's body and the flies that have been munching on it.

"No prints, no tracks, no nothing," Vallejo says, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. "Just his tongue missing, a chunk of his gut carved out....and a note."

I grab it. Anything this sicko says, any possible hint I could get, I want to know.

**Dear detective,**

**I hope you'll forgive my forthrightness. I thought I could plan a better end for Mikey than simply moldering in the ground. Mikey did the best acting this school has ever seen: rather than let his silver tongue go to waste, it shall now become part of the greatest experiment of all time.**

**Regarding quality, don't fret: I assure you, future parts gathered shall be fresher.**

**Cheers.**

My blood turns cold. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

The note is sent off for analysis, and I walk back to the office in a daze. How many cases am I going to get like this? How many cases am I going to get where I start off with no clues, no leads, no....

I notice a note on my desk. Hastily scrawled. Only one thing written on it.

**RECITAL. TONIGHT. HE GETS THE HANDS.**

...Apparently, this wouldn't be one of those cases.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, Ingrid and I aren't so naive as to think that it couldn't be a trap. We litter that place with our people. Hell, we even get O'Farrell in there. We need all the help we can get. 8:30 P.M., we've got safety patrol at every entry, exit, and throughout the auditorium. No way anyone gets in without us knowing. 30 minutes into the show, I almost begin to relax and enjoy the music when it hits me:

Given what I've seen this guy do, is it really that hard to believe they'd get here early and wait it out?

Is it really hard to believe they might have come here straight after digging up Mikey?

Is there any possible place we don't have safety patrol ready and waiting?

A scream from the dressing room gives me my answer.

Nicky Little, the school's resident violinist. He wants her hands.

Ingrid wears the same face of sudden, grim comprehension that I have. We race to the dressing room and bust in, modesty, for the moment, forgotten.

Sure enough, there's someone there dressed in black, complete with mask, wielding a pair of safety scissors and clutching Nicky by the arm.

"X MIDDLE SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL! FREEZE!" Ingrid shouts as I flash my badge. Somehow, something tells me our friend won't care.

He (whoever He is) tosses Nicky to the ground and rushes us, trying to get past us.

No. Not past us. THROUGH us. That's the problem with crazy: you corner them, they fight. He throws me to the side and begins grappling with Ingrid. I'm barely able to pull him off of her before he bites a finger off. Let me tell you, there's only one thing worse than a case of crazy.

Eventually, he manages to get past us and into the night: of course, he still finds time to leave us a note on the pavement, right outside the school.

**I hope you've had as much fun tonight as I have, Detective. Hopefully, my attempt to procure the hands I need was successful: if not, try, try again. There will be plenty of time for the body later: I suppose now I should focus on the head, anyway. Nicky will simply have to wait her turn, should she decide to make things difficult.**

**Cheers.**

Looks like Nicky's safe for now, at least. I make a note to have Vallejo give her some protection, just to be safe.

Wonder why this guy keeps calling me detective.

As Ingrid and I walk back to the auditorium, I hear someone laughing. Someone...familiar.

I glance over some bushes to see none other than Randall Weems, hunched over something cupped in his hands, cackling and rambling.

"It's all coming together now, isn't it sweeties? Yep...all coming together..."

"You know, Randall," I call to him. "It doesn't look good to be laughing maniacally and talking to yourself when there's a psycho on the loose."

Randall glances at me, hisses, then slinks off. I make two more notes:

1) Bring Randall in for questioning,

2)Have TJ give him a swirly.

Exhausted, Ingrid and I walk back to the office to get our things and go wait for our parents to pick us up.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, what should be lying on my desk than another note.

**TODAY. LUNCH. HE STARTS THE HEAD**

Perfect. I was afraid it would be too specific. CAN'T make things too easy, now can we?

Ingrid goes over the footage from last night's security cam. Sure enough, the person leaving the notes is disguised.

"Let's think this over," Ingrid begins."What have the victims had in common so far?"

Both were students? That narrows it down. Both were blondes? That might be something.

"Both were artists?" Ingrid offers. I take it. I take it and I run with it.

"Ingrid....what exactly is 'Flava Sava' up to these days?"

Flava Sava. Randall the Vandal.I tried to help him. Bureacracy had kept him locked up in detention and away from any art supplies. Ingrid and I decide to pay him a visit.

His detention room was perfectly clean and white: not a trace of sketching to be found anywhere.

"Randall has been a model prisoner. Not a single tagging attempt in months," his guard brags. Now I'm worried. An artist doesn't just decide to stop being an artist.

"Randall doesn't have access to any sort of art utensils, right? No pens, no pencils, no markers... how does he take tests?" Ingrid asks.

"Punch cards," the guard shrugs. I notice a dripping sound in the room. "He uses a tiny metal thing to poke the spots out. Why?"

I begin to flip the desk over. "I think Randall might have found himself a new medium."

It's just what I feared. Randall didn't have access to ink of any kind: so he found something else.

Under his desk is an elaborate painting of a man, done entirely in Randall's own blood. I whirl around to the shocked guard.

"Where is Randall now?! Right now?!"

The guard sputters, still in shock. "R-Right now? He's at lunch..."

Ingrid and I look at each other in horror: we had lost track of time.

We run back to the main building as fast as our legs can carry us.

We're too late. Randall had gotten to Tish in the bathroom.

Fortunately, his plans only called for Tish's hair: she was shaken and sobbing, but she would survive. She was lucky, plain and simple.

But any relief I felt was gone by the time I finished reading his next note.

**Please tell Tish that I'm sorry I couldn't use more from her. We all have our appointed role in life: not all of us can have the good fortune to give our lives for art. Maybe she'll get lucky: maybe I'll wind up needing something to fill out the last bits of internal organs. I'll keep her posted.**

**Also, congratulations: I've been sticking with artists for the project so far, Detective, but I've decided to make an exception for you and your partner: more specifically, your keen eyes and her beautiful mind. **

**See you soon.**


	4. Chapter 4

So it didn't help when Randall Weems showed up for his daily pep talk.

"OK, Fillmore, this time I've got something GOOD. I-..."

I finally snap.

"Randall, Ingrid's life is in danger. I have some guy threatening to pull my eyes out, and I don't think he's going to be gentle about it!

UNLESS WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO TELL ME HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS CASE DIRECTLY, STOP. WASTING. MY. TIME!"

Randall sniffles. His notebook drops. He turns away before bolting from the room, sobbing.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Ingrid tells me. I sigh and begin to pick up Randall's stuff. Yeah, I was harsh, but one tends to be under pressure when some guy is threatening to-

I pause.

Randall's handwriting is...familiar.

I check the notes warning us about Flava Sava's strikes against Randall's homework. It's a match. A perfect freaking match. I slowly turn to Ingrid:

"We've got to catch him."

Ingrid and I rush out into the hall, just in time to see Randall turn a corner, still sobbing. Fast kid. I barely manage to see him duck into the supply room.

Ingrid and I slowly walk in. The only sound in the room is Randall's sobbing.

Wait.

Something's wrong.

That's not sobbing.

I pull Ingrid behind a shelf so we can watch Randall.

He's laughing. A low, dark laugh as he hunches over on the floor, pulling something from his pocket.

My stomach churns: it's a piece of Mikey.


	5. Chapter 5

"My friends...my little friends....It's all coming together...." Randall opens a box shoved under a shelf and dumps the contents out on the piece of Mikey resting on the floor. My fear of being found is the only thing that keeps me from throwing up.

Bugs. Flies and Beetles. HUGE. All wearing tiny outfits that Randall must have sewn for them. Pinning their wings to their bodies so they can't fly away.

"Soon, I'll have Fillmore's desk...they'll have to give it to me, after he dies and I catch Flava Sava....Then you can all live in a nice little terrarium on my desk, and every day you'll get a chunk of Fillmore and Ingrid to eat..."

He picks up a piece of flesh with a fly wearing a tiny blue shirt and a little yellow skirt on it. He's not going to do it.

"Especially you, Maggie....Maggie Maggie Maggie...."

He's lifting the fly to his mouth. He's doing it.

"You are a ravishing beauty..."

He does it. He kisses the fly.

It takes all my concentration to not hurl my guts then and there.

"And all this will all happen once I turn Ingrid and Fillmore over to Flava Sava..."

He's getting up...

"..so that should be by the end of the day!..."

He's walking towards us.

He knows we're here.

A voice behind us whispers: "Welcome to the Art World, guys."

Next thing I know, everything goes black.

When I finally manage to come to....remember how I said that there was only one thing worse than a case or crazy?

It's two cases of crazy. Especially when they work together.

Randall & Randall.


	6. Chapter 6

Tied up. Ingrid beside me. I look over and breathe a sigh of relief that her brain is still in her body.

"'I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're so beautiful. Everything's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.'

Andy Warhol said that, Fillmore. He had it right. He didn't want to just create art: he wanted to BECOME art. Can you understand how much of a revelation that was for me?"

Given that he spent the better part of the last few days trying to rip apart the student body, I had an inkling.

"Artists...we all spend our days toiling and toiling to create art while our bodies waste away to nothing. I realized that this was the greatest service I could do to my fellow artists. I'm combining our essences, Fillmore. I'm creating the perfect installation piece from the sum of our parts."

I try and wiggle free. The knots are lose...but I need more time. "What's with the 'our', Randall? seems to me that you're not doing your share."

Flava Sava sighs. He sounds...disappointed.

"Believe me, Fillmore, there's nothing more i would love than to give my life for art. But it's not my time yet. I need to collect...I need to pull everything together before I can add the final piece....my own heart."

"ENOUGH TALKING! CHOP 'EM UP!" Randall Weems shouts. "CHOP 'EM UP GOOD!"

Flava Sava chuckles and reaches for a saw. "Right! Ingrid: Let's create art!"

I begin to panic. Just a few more seconds...what can I do?

Then I notice Randall left his "friends" out. And one happens to be near my left foot:

Sorry, Maggie.

Randall screams so loud that I could swear glass shattered: but it stopped Flava Sava in his tracks. "MURDERER! MURDERER!" Weems shrieks at me, hefting me up by the collar. I take a second to appreciate the irony before I shake off the rope.

He manages to let out a single "Oh." before I give him a nice tap on the jaw and a free trip to Dreamland.

"No..no....It's all lost...." Flava Sava mumbles as he starts to run. I untie Ingrid before I go after him.

I'm finally able to get a sense of my surroundings as I chase Flava Sava: We're in the janitor's closet on the top floor.

It then dawns on me what Flava Sava's plan B is as he climbs to the roof. I get there in time to see him run to the edge.

"I wanted....I wanted to do right by my fellow artists...I wanted to make them part of it...." Oh no.

"I'm sad that I'm the only one who can become art now...."

He sees the crowd gathered below. He thrusts his arms out and tips himself over the edge as he shouts " I HAVE BECOME PERFORMANCE ART!"

I barely manage to grab the leg of his pants...then I realize that my balance isn't so hot either. For a second I think BOTH of us are going to "become performance art"...before Ingrid grabs me. Working with her, we all manage to get back on the roof. "Perfect timing as usual, Ingrid," I chuckle.

A few hours later, Randall and Randall are both being led away for a nice long rest in some white coats. I'm no psychologist, but I bet Randall the vandal will get some good of out art therapy. Let him paint with something besides blood for once.

Other Randall...I'm not so sure. But Ingrid at least takes pity on him: she gives him a new "Maggie" he can call his own.

"Looks like a closed case, huh Ingrid?"

She grins at me. "Good thing, too: Don't know how you'd manage without me around to do the thinking."

"What?" I chuckle.

"Hey, he didn't want YOUR brain."

Snap.


End file.
